


If You Trust Me

by yet_intrepid



Series: say we're only dreaming [2]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Aladdin (1992) Fusion, Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, F/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Team as Family
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-15
Updated: 2017-08-04
Packaged: 2018-11-14 14:40:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11210151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yet_intrepid/pseuds/yet_intrepid
Summary: “I’m sorry,” the young man says to her, as they slow to a walk in an empty residential street. He’s dropped her hand; Allura thinks for a moment that she misses the closeness. “I could have gotten you arrested.”“I almost got myself arrested,” Allura points out. “Your apologies are unneeded. Let me offer my thanks instead.”“No,” he insists. “You would have been in worse trouble had you been caught with me. I have—a history.”She looks down at his right arm, ending bluntly before the wrist. “You’re really a thief?”





	1. as our fingers entwine

In the bustle of the market, Shiro stakes out his position. Lance is already busy, talking up a storm with the vendor about how business is, flirting with her a little. She’s middle-aged, flattered by his attention, and Shiro crosses his fingers in hope that nothing goes wrong today.

It’s been three days since they had any luck. There’s not a scrap of food left in the hideout, and Shiro can’t bear to think of another night listening to Pidge cry herself to sleep.

No, he thinks, they have to get a good haul today. Something that’ll let them lay low for a while, give them enough supplies to spend time hunting for Pidge’s brother instead of begging or stealing to survive.

Keith slips into Shiro’s field of vision, Pidge coming in from the other side. In a carefully rehearsed move, they bump into each other.

“What the hell!” Pidge yells. She’s dressed in their best jacket; it’s too big for her but makes her look respectable enough to be outraged at being touched by the rag-clad Keith. “Get away from me, you dirty, awful—”

“You bumped into _me_!” Keith shoots back, gaining volume over Pidge. “Fuck off!”

Then they’re fighting, fist after fist, and people are looking, and Lance is keeping up shocked chatter with the merchant.

It’s time.

Shiro dodges in, his canvas satchel at the ready. He grabs whatever’s closest—a loaf of bread, a couple pieces of fruit, a sack of nuts—and he doesn’t overdo it. Before people lose interest in the fight, he’s backed away again and blended back into the crowd.

Okay, he thinks, second role: preventing the fight from going too far and the guards getting called. Shiro weaves his way through the circle that’s gathered around Keith and Pidge and grabs Keith by the shoulder, whirling him around.

“What do you think you’re doing!” he yells, leaning in Keith’s face for a good show. “Apologize to the young lady this instant!”

“You aren’t my dad,” Keith yells back. “Fuck you!”

“I’m not your dad,” Shiro agrees. It’s a role he hates, the way Keith’s eyes droop afterwards even though it was all an act, but it’s necessary. “But you still won’t like what’s waiting for you at home if you don’t do as I say!”

Keith looks at the ground, scuffs his bare feet in the dirt. “Fine,” he says, then turns to Pidge. “Sorry, miss.”

Pidge folds her arms. “Fine,” she says. “Look where you’re going next time, beggar.”

At the insult, Keith flares. He moves as if to go at her again, but Shiro swirls him away before anything worse can happen, a firm grip on the kid’s ear. As soon as they’re safely into the alleyway, though, he lets go.

“Good show there, kiddo,” he says, letting his arm slide around Keith’s shoulders. 

“Thanks,” Keith says. He lifts his hand as if to rub at his ear, then changes his mind. That’s Keith—proud to the end, determined to keep himself in check. He doesn’t always succeed, especially around Lance, but hell if he doesn’t try. “Did you get anything?”

“Yeah,” Shiro says. He moves his left arm from Keith’s shoulders so he can use his hand to open the satchel and show Keith his loot. “Not enough for long, but I figured we could repeat in the market down on Juniberry Way in a couple hours.”

Keith eyes the food. “Pidge and Lance meeting us at the hideout first?”

Shiro nods, still holding open the satchel. “There should be enough fruit for each of us. Here, have one.”

Keith swallows. “Nah,” he says. “I’ll wait till we can share with everybody.”

Shiro smiles at him, and they wind their way through the alleys to their hideout—an abandoned attic overlooking the palace. It’s rough living, cold in the winter and leaky in the summer rains, but it’s a place to call home.

Keith scales the tree next to the building and crawls in through the attic window. Shiro’s not as agile as he used to be, back when he had two hands, but he’s adapted, and he clambers up steadily after Keith.

“Shiro!” Lance cheers, sitting up from where he’s already sprawled on the floor next to Pidge. “What’d you bring us?”

“Couple things,” Shiro says, smiling back at him as he sits down, too. He tosses each of them a piece of fruit, reserving the smallest for himself. “Bread or nuts? We’ll save the other for tonight.”

“Bread,” says Keith. He settles next to Pidge.

“Nuts,” says Lance, just to be ornery.

“Quiznak,” sighs Pidge. “Why am I always tiebreaker?”

“Because Lance can’t resist a fight,” Keith accuses, and Lance is about to shoot back when Shiro raises his hands, ready to make peace.

“Hey,” he says. “We’re all hungry, we’re all frustrated. That’s no reason to turn on each other, okay?”

They all look back at him, gloomy and unconvinced.

Shiro sighs. “Let’s do bread now,” he says. “It’ll be better fresh; the nuts will keep.”

Lance grumbles, but Shiro can tell it’s only for show. For a while, there’s silence as they all start sinking teeth into the fruit. Shiro takes a bite, too, savoring it as he divides up the small loaf of bread. It’s good fruit—he tries to steal from the richer vendors to soothe his conscience, and the side effect of getting better produce isn’t a bad thing either.

“When are we going down to Juniberry Way for the second run?” Keith asks.

“I was thinking in a couple hours.” Shiro peers out the window at the sun. “It’s not even noon yet, and the markets will get busier later. Better for cover.”

Keith nods, satisfied, and turns back to his fruit. Shiro leans back against the wall and breathes, taking in the beautiful lift of energy and mood that comes with finally eating again. It’s a little cooler in the attic, away from the sun that’s decided to make an appearance today instead of just making the air muggy from behind thick clouds, and today’s going to be fine, Shiro tells himself. Everything’s going to work out.

\----

Straightening her brown scarf over her head, Allura takes a deep breath. It’s less a steadying one, though, and more something intoxicating. Quiznak, she’s outside the castle alone.

It’s not that she’s never seen the sun, or never felt the grass, or never been on diplomatic missions to other kingdoms. She has. But she’s never been unsupervised like this before, never away from the gaggle of maids and advisors assigned to her by her regent, Coran.

It’s, for lack of a better word, magic.

Allura turns down Juniberry Way, marveling at the scents that the wind blows around her. Some are astounding—spices and fruits, the warmth of the dirt in the sun. Others are less beautiful: sweat, she thinks, and animals. But all of it is amazing.

She wanders from stall to stall, touching fabrics and leaning over carts of vegetables as if she knows how to inspect them for freshness. It’s a pity she hasn’t brought any money. The royal fortune is hers, but Coran supervises it until she comes of age, and Coran…

Allura loves Coran. But she does not love Zarkon, and Zarkon is the only one Coran listens to of late. Well, Zarkon and the ancient laws of Altea.

The ancient laws of Altea could do with a quiznaking update, Allura thinks, scowling. It’s all very well that the law dictates a regent rule the kingdom until she turns twenty-one, but the other clause, the one about her marriage to a prince before that same day—well.

It’s the reason she’s running away.

She ought to have planned better, really. All she thought was to get away for a while, see the city, avoid her suitors. But now that she’s here, independent and surrounded by wonder, she never wants to return.

She’s got a few things she could sell, if she found someone who would ask no questions—the gold circlet covered by her scarf, the jeweled earrings she forgot to take off. She could get a job, too, she’s sure. She’s well-read, diplomatic. A clerk’s office or a scribe should be happy to have her.

Yes, Allura thinks, she’s doing it. She’s running away.

“Fine fish!” someone is calling. “Fine fish for sale!”

Someone with a wheeled cart weaves in front of her. “Juniberries of Juniberry Way! Best juniberries in the city!”

“Roses, miss?” A young girl steps out, pulling on Allura’s sleeve. The girl’s about seven, dressed in a patched cotton shift. Her bare knees are scraped, her arms too thin. “Buy a rose from an orphan?”

Allura stares at her. She cannot help staring. She never knew that in her kingdom there were children who suffered so.

But she has brought no money, and all she can do is back away, shaking her head.

“Nice red plums, miss!” some other merchant is calling. “Nice red plums!”

Allura turns. The merchant is close to her, pressing a plum into her hand.

“A pretty fruit for a pretty lady,” he says.

“Oh,” says Allura, “thank you!” She gives him her brightest smile and turns again. The child with the roses is still close by and Allura bends down, handing over the plum.

“Hey!” the merchant calls after. “You can’t just run off with that, now!”

“What?” Allura glares at him. “You gave it to me!”

The merchant glares back, grabbing her by the shoulder. “Don’t play innocent with me, girl. You know you just stole my plum. Now pay up, or I’ll call the guards!”

“Call them!” Allura fires back. “I’ll speak to the prince regent about your unwillingness to give to a starving child.”

“The prince regent?” The merchant bursts out in unkind laughter. “Now you’re just mocking me, girl. Don’t think I won’t have you arrested.”

“Please,” bursts in another voice, and Allura swirls indignantly at the touch of a hand on her shoulder. “Sir, please, she’s not well. I beg you to forgive my wife—”

Wife?

The young man at Allura’s side is clearly poor; his loose patched shirt and rough trousers attest to that. Allura’s impulse is to jerk away from him, assert her independence. But his earnest eyes are pleading with her to play along, so she keeps her mouth shut as he starts to steer her away.

But the merchant reaches out and grabs the young man by his other arm. “Not so fast,” he challenges. “You’d better pay for what your wife stole.”

“Sir,” the young man starts again, but the merchant pulls him closer. And then Allura sees it, and she sees the merchant see it too.

The young man is missing a hand.

A real thief, Allura thinks, shuddering, because that’s what gets your hand cut off.

And then everything starts to move again, the young man pulling at her, the shouting of the merchant, the clang of armor.

“Run!” he calls to her, his single hand in hers, and Allura doesn’t know why, but she follows.

He leads her expertly through the crowd, jumping over obstacles and squeezing between bodies. They dart down a side-street, emerging into a different thoroughfare, and Allura nearly runs into him as he slows to a casual walk.

“Shhh,” he murmurs to her, as she starts to question. “Blend in. And don’t look over your shoulder too much.”

“Do you do this a lot?” she hisses back. “Run from the guards?”

He looks away from her. “Enough,” he says.

A voice breaks in. “There they are!”

“Shit,” the man leading her breathes. “Ready?”

They run again, crashing into a jewelry stall and leaving a disaster behind them. The guards shout threats as they struggle past the mess, but Allura and her rescuer take turn after turn and soon the yelling fades into the distance.

“I’m sorry,” the young man says to her, as they slow to a walk in an empty residential street. He’s dropped her hand; Allura thinks for a moment that she misses the closeness. “I could have gotten you arrested.”

“I almost got _myself_ arrested,” Allura points out. “Your apologies are unneeded. Let me offer my thanks instead.”

“No,” he insists. “You would have been in worse trouble had you been caught with me. I have—a history.”

She looks down at his right arm, ending bluntly before the wrist. “You’re really a thief?”

He swallows, but nods. “Everyone has to eat.”

“But,” Allura starts, “surely there’s work in the city?”

He looks at her, then, and raises the stump of his arm. “I’m marked,” he says. His gaze, sad but firm, makes something inside her clench and ache. “Once someone knows you’re a thief, they won’t see you as anything else.”

“But why steal in the first place?” she asks him. “There must be other ways; I cannot believe that Altea is—”

“I think,” he interrupts, quietly, “that you and I know two very different Alteas.”

He stops walking in front of a decrepit building. “If you’re looking for a place to hide out,” he says, “you’re welcome to join me. Otherwise, I can make sure you get safely back to…wherever you belong.”

“I don’t belong anywhere,” says Allura.

He raises his eyebrows, but shrugs in acceptance and gestures to a tree leading to an open window. “Up the staircase, then.”

He offers her a hand into the tree, which isn’t as hard to climb as she worried it would be. Still, her tumble through the window is less than graceful, and she’s still dusting herself off as he climbs in after her.

“Welcome to my castle,” he says, grinning shyly. “It’s not much, but it’s got a great view.”

Allura looks around the attic they’ve entered. It’s certainly not much, she thinks. There’s not so much as a fireplace or a straw mattress; a few blankets and buckets make up the entirety of the furniture. By each folded blanket is a collection of odds and ends, things like smooth rocks and bits of cloth. There’s a shard of mirror by one, a pocketknife by another.

She peers back out the window, but doesn’t see anything that could be considered a great view.

He catches her looking. “You have to go up on the roof,” he explains. “Want to?”

“Sure,” says Allura, and they climb back out the window. A little higher, his hand in hers, and they clamber onto the lightly slanted roof. He points to their left, where the sun is just starting to set.

“See,” he says. “The palace!”

“Oh,” says Allura, her stomach turning. “It’s…wonderful.”

He squints at her, like he’s trying to figure out a puzzle, and then turns to gaze outwards again. “I wonder what it’d be like to live there.” His voice is soft, wistful. “No more scraping for food or ducking the guards, huh?”

“People telling you what to do all the time,” Allura murmurs. “That’s how it’d be. Royalty can’t live as they please.”

“Neither can we,” he points out, stung. “You think I’m a thief by choice?”

“No,” she says, looking him in the eye. “No, I don’t. People everywhere…we’re all trapped.”

“Trapped,” he echoes, half a beat after her. Then he shakes his head. “Where are you from?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Allura says. “I’m not going back.”

“Why?”

It’s Allura’s turn to swallow, look away. “I’m being forced to marry,” she says, and the words are heavy. He’s the first person she’s confided in about this, she realizes—she’s told Coran her feelings; the whole palace knows she doesn’t approve. But that’s different from sitting next to someone on a roof, knowing they’re listening with their full heart. “And all the men, they’re…I can’t talk to them. They look at me like I’m some kind of prize. Not like a person.”

Not like you, she thinks, and she shuts her mouth to prevent the thought from slipping into words.

“That’s awful,” he murmurs, gentle and sad. Their fingers are still interlaced, warm with contact and the setting sun. “We really are all trapped.”

“Yes,” says Allura. “That’s why I ran away. I think I can get a job; there’s some skills I have.”

“Until you do,” he says, “you can stay here if you like. There’s five—four of us. We look after each other. I think there’s an extra blanket.”

“I’d be delighted,” she says, and his answering smile is more beautiful than the red-gold light that glints off the white spires of the castle.

\----

“Shiro!”

Keith clambers through the window, Lance and Pidge following him.

“You left us!” Pidge complains. “You ditched the operation!”

“We looked all over for you!” cries Lance, overlapping her. “What the hell, man, what happened?”

“The guards happened,” says Shiro. “And I had to help out a new friend.”

He gestures to the young woman beside him—she hasn’t told him her name, he realizes, so he can’t introduce her properly. But she’s sitting cross-legged next to Shiro, their knees brushing, and Shiro thinks she could be a mystery forever and he’d accept that, as long as she stayed.

“Ohhh,” Lance says. “A new friend. I get it.”

Keith scowls. “You brought a stranger to our hideout?”

Shiro shrugs. “She was about to be arrested, Keith. You know I couldn’t let that happen.”

Keith grunts, sitting down on a bucket. Pidge mirrors him.

“Did you grab anything?” she asks.

“No,” says Shiro. Guilt washes over him. “Like I said, the guards happened. We’ll have to go back out tomorrow.”

“We got a little,” Keith says. “Just some rolls, but it’ll be enough for the morning.”

Shiro nods. “Good. Any incidents?”

“Nope,” says Lance. “No  incidents. Can we eat those nuts now?”

They divide up the nuts into five equal piles. Shiro watches Pidge carefully, wondering if she’s thinking of Matt. Shiro certainly is; it’s only been a few weeks since they got split up running from the guards, and Matt hasn’t been back to the hideout since. In the back of Shiro’s mind, there’s a worry that he’s dead. But Shiro can’t let himself dwell on that, not if he’s going to be strong for the others.

Thankfully, the others don’t seem to be dwelling on it either. Pidge and Lance are chattering happily, comparing the sizes and shapes of the nuts they’re eating and deciding what creatures or other objects they could be. The woman from the marketplace joins in, too, and Shiro sighs in relief at the ease of conversation.

“Shiro,” Keith whispers.

Shiro’s brow furrows. “Yeah?” he whispers back, shifting closer to Keith.

Keith looks worried. “Did you really get chased by the guards?”

“Yes,” Shiro says. “But we lost them, okay? No one got hurt.”

“I don’t trust her,” Keith says, jerking his head towards the woman who’s laughing with Pidge and Lance. “She doesn’t look—she looks rich. What if she’s a spy?”

Does she look rich? Shiro turns to sneak a glance. She’s wearing earrings, certainly, though Shiro had assumed they were simple costume jewelry. Her outfit, though plain, is certainly not very worn. And Keith is right, she carries herself differently than most people he sees on the street.

But he doesn’t think she’s a spy. He doesn’t know why, but…

“I trust her,” he says. “But I’ll be careful.”

“Good,” Keith says.

“She might be useful tomorrow, though,” Shiro points out. “It’s always good to switch up the diversions; people are starting to recognize Lance.”

“I guess,” says Keith. He puts the rest of his nuts in his mouth and chews thoughtfully, then stretches. “I’m going to sleep.”

Shiro ruffles his hair. “Goodnight.”

“Night,” says Keith.

Pidge and Lance settle down soon after, rolling themselves in their old blankets. There isn’t an extra, Shiro realizes, because Matt’s blanket is tucked under Pidge’s head, and he can’t ask her to give that up. So he takes his own and goes over to the woman from the marketplace, holding it out.

“Here,” he says. “Get some rest.”

She raises an eyebrow at him. “That’s yours.”

Shiro shrugs. “I’m fine without.”

“We could share,” she says. Her eyes gleam in the dark of the attic, and Shiro thinks again that she is beautiful, the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen.

And brave, too.

“I’m okay with that,” he answers. “If you trust me.”

“I trust you,” she says, and they lie down back to back beneath the coarse fabric.

“Wait,” Shiro whispers after a moment. “What’s your name?”

But she’s already asleep.


	2. whisper what it is you want

They don’t go back to Juniberry Way the next morning. It’s too risky, Shiro thinks, and when he says so the others agree. So instead, they wander casually towards a smaller market in the western part of town, closer to the palace.

They haven’t run an operation here in a while, so they mostly stick to the plan they used yesterday. The fight first, Keith and Pidge throwing insults and punches, and Lance carries on shocked conversation with vendors while the woman they met yesterday shouts at Keith and Pidge for causing a commotion.

Shiro knows his job, and he does it well. There’s a stockpile of bread in his bag before anyone blinks, and then he slips to another vendor to pick up some wheels of cheese. There’s enough in the satchel to keep them fed for a couple days by the time he breaks through the crowd to drag Keith and Pidge apart.

“You can’t keep doing this,” he scolds, shaking Keith a little by the shoulders as Pidge dusts the dirt from her clothes. “You’ll be the shame of the family!”

“I don’t have any family,” Keith yells. “You aren’t my real brother!”

“Excuse me,” says a voice behind them. It’s gruff, stern, and panic wells up in Shiro’s heart as he sees it rising in Keith’s eyes. “What seems to be the trouble?”

Shiro turns so his right arm is away from the guard. “Just my ward here, sir,” he says. “Causing a ruckus. I’ll be sure to knock some sense into him once we’re home.”

Keith winces at that and Shiro isn’t sure if he’s acting or not. He reminds himself to check in with Keith as soon as they’re clear of this.

“Right,” says the guard. “Move along, then. No more of this shouting in the street.”

“Yes sir,” says Shiro, and he turns to lead Keith away. Then—

“Thief!” someone yells; a quick glance reveals the cheese vendor waving angrily for the guards. “There’s been a thief!”

Shiro tries to whip his right arm back out of sight again, but the guards see. They grab for him; he dodges, letting go of Keith, who fades into the crowd. Where’s the woman from yesterday, Shiro thinks desperately, and then he sights her, standing in an empty patch of ground, unmoving.

She looks guilty as all hell.

Shiro lunges for her, grabs her hand, and starts to run.

He doesn’t know where the others are, but there’s no time to look. There’s only time to dodge and duck and clutch his satchel close, time to pull his new friend along and hope to the stars there are no guards at the intersection.

There are guards at the intersection. Shiro runs dead into them, a spear nicking his side, and skids to a halt.

Shiro’s heart sinks into his stomach as they take his satchel, rifle through it. His arms are pinned; his new friend is caught hard by one elbow.

“Let him go!” she yells. “Let him go now!”

“Shut up, girl,” says the guard holding her. “He’s a thief.”

“He’s not a first-time offender, either,” points out the guard who’s got Shiro’s arms. “Got a missing hand, and we know what that means, don’t we, street rat?”

Shiro looks at the ground, trying to keep his composure as the guard shakes him roughly. His side is stinging, bleeding—not a dangerous wound, but a painful one.

“Let him go,” she’s repeating, over and over, and then she flicks up her free hand to cast away her scarf. “By order of Princess Allura!”

“Princess,” gasp the guards, as one, and Shiro looks up again. She’s wearing a circlet that was hidden by her scarf, and her long white hair tumbles down gloriously.

Only the royal family has hair like that.

“Princess,” Shiro says, desperately. His head spins; his heart flies back up into his throat. Quiznak, he could be _executed_ for this. “I didn’t,” he stutters. “I’m sorry—”

“Let him go,” Allura repeats.

“I’m sorry, princess,” says one of the guards, “but we’ve got strict orders from Zarkon to crack down on this sort of thing. I’ve got to take this riff-raff in, but you can take it up with Zarkon if you like.”

“I will,” Allura huffs, spinning on her heel towards the palace. Two of the guards follow her; the other three tie Shiro’s arms at the elbows and push him along in the same direction.

Well, thinks Shiro, he finally gets to see the palace. Definitely not the part of it he wanted to see, but he deserves the dungeons for fooling around with a princess, for leading her into trouble. He’s not angry about facing the consequences of his actions.

But Pidge, Lance, and Keith—he’s angry for their sake. Angry they won’t get to eat the food he stole, angry because he knows they’ll miss him.

He’s angry that he can’t protect them from growing up into what he is now.

The guards drive him onwards, through the palace gate and down a long flight of stone stairs. The torches on the walls cast more shadow than light, and Shiro struggles to keep his footing as the guards shove him and mock. At the bottom of the staircase, they untie his arms and push him into a cell.

“Enjoy the hand you have left,” says one of the guards, “because you won’t have it for long.”

“Might not have a _life_ for long,” adds another. “Not when Zarkon hears you kidnapped the princess.”

Shiro’s mouth opens to insist that he never kidnapped anyone, that he might be a thief but not of any living being. But before he can protest, the first guard backhands him across the mouth and pulls the door closed between them.

Shiro retreats into the corner and sits down, pulling his knees to his chest and pressing his hand to his side in hopes of stopping the bleeding.

In hopes of stemming the tide of his fears.

\----

A harsh rattling sound startles Shiro from sleep. It takes his eyes a moment to adjust to the dimness of the dungeon, but when they do he can make out a tall, imposing figure in the door of his cell.

“So,” says the figure, “this is the kidnapper.”

Shiro swallows hard as he shifts to his knees. “No, my lord,” he says. “My lord, I swear, I did the princess no harm.”

“Your oath holds little weight, commoner.” The figure steps closer. “Five palace guards will swear otherwise, and the princess herself? Well. She could testify you changed her into a monkey and be believed.”

“No,” says Shiro, automatically. The last day flashes through his head: her soft hand, her earnest courage, her warmth at his back while they slept. “No, she wouldn’t do that!”

“Do not presume the will of the princess,” the figure retorts.

Shiro feels himself shaking. “My lord,” he says. “Please, I will bear any punishment, but let me live. There are people counting on me. Three children—they have no one else.”

The figure says nothing for a long moment; Shiro wonders if his pleas have harmed his cause, rather than helped it. Then—

“There is a task. Perhaps you are the one for it.”

“A task, my lord?” Shiro asks.

The figure nods. “One with a risk of death, but not a certainty. Perform this for me, and you will be released unharmed.”

“You are gracious, my lord,” Shiro says. His heart beats loud, echoing desperate hope through his body. “I will do my utmost to serve you.”

“Then come,” says the figure. He snaps his fingers; Shiro rises obediently. “We have a journey ahead of us.”

They trek underground for what must be hours; Shiro gets hungry and thirsty and weak from the pain of his injured side, which is forming a sticky scab. But he doesn’t dare complain. His best guess is that this is  Lord Zarkon, the chief advisor to the regent, but whoever it is, he clearly has power over Shiro’s fate.  And frankly, staying alive to look after Pidge, Lance, and Keith is more than worth a little discomfort.

Only the walls change, from blocks of stone to rough-hewn rock, as they walk in silence through the dark. Shiro feels about to faint by the time the figure ahead of him comes to a halt at a dead end.

A voice, resonant and deep, rattles the walls. “Who disturbs my slumber?”

The figure pushes Shiro forward like a human shield as the rumble of the voice turns into a rumbling of the ceiling and floor. Then the wall before them opens with a glow of golden light. Shiro shields his eyes a moment, then dares to look.

Before him is the mouth of a great stone lion, open wide.

“Who,” repeats the voice, “disturbs my slumber?”

The figure pushes Shiro forward again. Shiro takes a deep breath and lifts his chin.

“It is I,” he says. “Uh, Shiro.”

“Proceed,” rumbles the voice. “Touch nothing…but the lamp.”

“What lamp?” says Shiro, but the great stone lion is silent. “What lamp?”

“You will know it when you see it,” says the figure behind him. “Bring me the lamp, and the rest of the treasure within will be yours.”

“Touch nothing but the lamp,” repeats the voice.

Shiro runs a hand over his face. Okay, he thinks, he can do this. He can do this.

Drawing courage tight around him, he steps through the lion’s mouth.

His eyes widen as he passes in. The warm golden light that dazzled him from outside is gentler here, but it gleams still, reflected off piles and piles of treasure. Touch nothing, the voice had said, and Shiro can see why the caution was needed. Just a handful of this stuff, and he could take care of his team for the rest of their lives.

But the figure had warned him that this mission carried some risk of death, and Shiro’s willing to bet that listening to the magic stone lion he’s now inside will do some good in preventing that.

The question, though, is how to find the lamp. The path through the treasure extends before him, as far as he can see; the piles of gold and jewels could hide anything. If the lamp is buried under something else, how will he recover it without touching something else?

At a loss for what else to do, Shiro starts walking. As he scans carefully for anything that looks like a lamp, he guards his thoughts, fencing his mind away from the good he could do with riches like these.

What he can’t push aside, though, is the growing feeling that he’s being watched.

Over and over, he thinks he hears a brush of feet, the swish of a whisper, but glances over his shoulder reveal no one. Stop being paranoid, Shiro, he tells himself firmly. Just because you’re inside a talking stone lion doesn’t necessarily mean you’re going to die.

There’s the noise again, though, and he swings around. This time, he catches a flicker of motion.

“Who are you?” Shiro calls. “Hello?”

Another swish, and from behind a carven chest emerges, flying, an ornate woven rug.

Shiro’s jaw drops. “You’re…you’re a magic carpet?”

“No,” says a familiar voice, quite clearly from the carpet. “What the hell, Shiro. I’m a magic _mat_.”

“Oh,” says Shiro weakly. He sits down.

The rug—Matt—twitches a tassel at him in a gesture oddly reminiscent of a raised eyebrow. “You’re not going to ask what happened?”

“I’ve got a better question,” Shiro mutters. “What sort of afterlife is this?”

“A shitty one,” says Matt, “only I’m pretty damn sure I didn’t die.”

“What _did_ you do?”

“Nothing!” Matt looks defensive. How does a rug look defensive? “Didn’t even touch the treasure! I just came in here and then there was a booming voice all like ‘you are not the diamond in the rough’ and then I was a fucking carpet!”

“Oh,” Shiro says again. “Uh…okay?”

“That’s what I said!” Matt sighs. “I guess you’re looking for the lamp, huh.”

“Yes,” says Shiro, surprised. “How’d you know?”

“You didn’t think I brought myself here, did you?” Matt asks. He twitches his tassels again. “Some shadowy official-looking dude promised if I found the lamp I wouldn’t get executed, which sounded like a deal, but nobody mentioned I could become a rug. Fate worse than death, really. Anyway, the point is that I know where the lamp is. I went exploring after I became a flying flap of fabric.”

Shiro takes a deep breath and stands up again. “Okay,” he says. “Show me the way, huh? And then we’ll get you out of here. Back to Pidge.”

“There’s no way in hell Pidge gets to see me as a rug,” Matt grumbles, but he soars back into the air with an odd grace. “This way.”

Shiro, still a tad dazed, follows him up a flight of stairs and through a maze of turns. Finally, they come to an open doorway, which reveals another flight of stairs. Shiro gazes up them to the ornate stand at the top, on which sits a small brass lamp.

“That’s the lamp?” Shiro hesitates, his foot on the first step. “That’s what he wants?”

“Yup,” says Matt. “Look, I’ve been here for weeks. This is the only lamp I’ve seen.”

“All right,” says Shiro, and he heads up the staircase. He extends his hand into the beam of bright light that surrounds it. Nothing bad happens, so he reaches for the lamp.

It’s smooth and cool and entirely anticlimactic. Shiro raises his eyebrows and heads back down the stairs, gripping it carefully in his hand.

“Okay,” he says. “Let’s get out of here.”

“Hell yes,” says Matt. “Want a ride? Dude, you look exhausted.”

It’s true. The stress has gotten to him, and so has the low food supply. His side aches relentlessly and his bare feet are sore from the uneven rocky floors of the tunnels he trekked to get here. Besides, how many people get to fly on magic carpets?

He steps on, wondering at how the fabric doesn’t give, and Matt starts to zoom through the maze.

Other things start to happen too. Namely, the roof starts caving in.

“What?” screams Matt, as he flies. Shiro, hugging the lamp in the crook of his elbow, clings to one of his corners with desperate fingers. “What the hell!”

“I touched you,” Shiro cries back. “You’re part of the treasure now and I touched you!”

“Shit!” yells Matt, dodging falling rocks. Flying coins hit Shiro in the face; he ducks a jeweled cup that hurtles towards him. “The door’s closing again!”

It is. Matt speeds up, evading debris with such sharp turns that Shiro feels sick. The lion’s mouth is slamming shut and for a moment Shiro thinks they’ll be trapped in its stone jaws.

Instead, they slam up against the rock. Shiro tumbles from his perch, slamming to the floor; in the last ray of light, he sees Matt drifting down after him.

Things stop falling, stop flying. Silence settles in.

Lying still, Shiro takes stock of his body. It doesn’t seem like he hit his head too hard, thankfully, and nothing feels broken. He hasn’t been turned into a rug, either. Shiro tightens his hand into a fist and pushes up to his knees, groaning with the effort.

“Matt?” he calls. If he squints, he can make out shapes. “Matt, you there?”

One of the shadows moves, a swish of cloth. “Yeah,” Matt says. “You okay there, dude?”

Shiro takes a deep breath. “I’m fine,” he says. “Just, you know…stuck in this cave.”

“You aren’t  a rug?”

“No,” Shiro sighs. He almost wishes he were, if there’s not going to be a way out. As a human, he’ll probably die of hunger and dehydration.

Matt floats closer. “I wonder what the hell he wanted with that lamp,” he says. “Looked pretty boring to me.”

“Well,” says Shiro, “let’s take a look.”

He feels around, trying to find the lamp. When his hand lands on it, it shines as if it’s reflecting a light that’s not there.

Drawing his eyebrows together, Shiro picks the thing up and examines it more closely. There’s some kind of writing on the side, but he can’t make it out. Lifting his right forearm, he rubs carefully at the tarnished brass.

The lamp glows brighter, grows hot. Shiro drops it with a clang, staring as a wisp of golden smoke emerges, stretches, solidifies with a cry of triumph.

Matt curls himself behind Shiro; Shiro begins to feel that he has done something he did not intend.

“Hey!” cries the figure that’s solidified from the smoke. It’s remarkably human-like, if translucent. Or at least it has a human face and torso; below that, it drifts back into smoke. “Dude, congratulations!”

“Uh,” says Shiro. “Sorry?”

“Congratulations,” repeats the figure. “You found yourself a genie, man. Name’s Hunk? But you can just call me genie, too, that works.”

“A genie,” Shiro repeats. Maybe he did hit his head after all.

“That’s right,” the genie says. He smiles almost shyly, tugging at the headband that holds back his dark hair. “Thanks, by the way. Ten thousand years is a long time to live in a lamp. What’s your name?”

“Shiro,” says Shiro.

“Shiro!” Hunk grins wider. “Okay, Shiro. What d’you want?”

“What do I want?” He definitely hit his head. He should be processing faster than this.

“You do know what a genie does, right,” Matt puts in. “You’ve heard the stories? Three wishes?”

“Yeah,” says Shiro, “but they’re—they’re stories.”

“Everything’s a story,” says Hunk. “But this story is also your life, man, and it looks like you could use some wishes.”

“What can you do?” Shiro asks. Slowly, his mind begins to fill with images, dreams. His parents alive, holding him. His hand restored, nothing left to mark him as a criminal. Enough money that he could take care of Pidge, Lance, and Keith for a lifetime. Or hell (and his throat goes tight thinking of it) maybe he can resurrect all their parents with a single wish. And Allura…

“Better question,” says Matt, interrupting Shiro’s thoughts. “What can’t you do?”

“Better question definitely,” Hunk says. “Couple of things. Can’t give you more wishes than you already got. Three’s the top. Can’t kill anyone, can’t make anybody fall in love, can’t bring people back from the dead—”

“Can’t bring people back from the dead,” Shiro repeats, devastated.

“Well, yeah,” Hunk says. He peers anxiously at Shiro. “It just doesn’t work right? They come back all gross and creepy. Same with the falling in love. Best I can do is a weird like, obsession kinda thing and I really, really don’t like that. You know?”

Shiro nods and says nothing. He’s such a fool, he thinks, letting himself get his hopes up.

Hunk frowns at him, shrinking a little smaller. “So…wanna see a demo? Because there’s lots of things I can do, you know, aside from those couple little caveats.”

“Yes,” says Matt, flapping his tassels. Shiro makes a mental note to wish Matt back into being a human. “Hey, can you magically make food for us? I get the feeling my buddy here is a little hungry.”

“Can I make food?” Hunk swells back up again, huge and glowing. “You bet I can make food, Mr. Rug! Let’s see here…”

He claps his hands. With a bang, a carved table and a plush chair appear. “Take a seat, Shiro!” Hunk swirls around his shoulders with a grin. “The rug’s right, huh, you’re hungry?”

“Yes,” Shiro admits, “but—”

“This one’s on the house,” Hunk says. Then there’s lights, tall torches balancing in the air; a purple tablecloth drapes itself over the table as Shiro settles into the chair. “Come on, man, I’ll make you something good. What do you like?”

He snaps his fingers and ingredients appear on the table: flour, eggs, fruits, gleaming white sugar. “No, don’t answer that, you look like the sort of guy who thinks eating two different foods is enough to make for a fancy meal. No offense, of course.” He swirls a hand and the jar of flour floats up, pouring into a bowl that pops out of nowhere. “All I’m saying is, you look like you’ve never had a nice sit-down dinner in your life, that’s all. But don’t worry! –Ooooh, let’s make baklava. You’ll like baklava. But I’d better make you real food first, huh; if you’re on an empty stomach, sweets are _not_ good. Trust me.”

Shiro just sits. Stares. The chair he’s in is the softest thing he’s felt in his life, and the foods that spin into existence around him are wonders, their smells more mouth-watering than anything he’s ever imagined.

“What I’m saying is,” says Hunk, sliding four full plates in front of Shiro, “you’ve never had a friend like me before, dude. And I’m in the mood to help, so eat up!”

Shiro doesn’t have to be told again. He savors every bite, eating until he’s full enough to ache with it. He can’t name half the things he’s tasting, but it doesn’t matter.

“Thank you, Hunk,” he says, when he can’t imagine eating another bite. “I’m sorry I doubted you.”

“Hey, no problem, man,” Hunk starts to say, but Matt interrupts.

“I’m not sorry,” he says, draping his fabric over the arm of Shiro’s chair. “You can make food, cool. But you can’t bring people back from the dead. There’s a big gap between those things, and I’m starting to wonder if you can even get us out of this cave.”

Hunk’s eyes widen. “Oh yeah?” he says, defensive. “I’m not just good for a snack, you know. Hold onto your lamp!”

Bang! And they’re outside, sitting in the grass of the fields outside the city walls.

“Ha,” Hunk says. “Now, for your other two wishes—”

“Three wishes,” says Matt. “Shiro never wished to be out of the cave.”

Hunk folds his arms. “Okay, okay. No more freebies, you two, but fine. Three more wishes.”

Matt bends towards Shiro expectantly, and Shiro feels a heavy, heavy weight on his heart. There’s so much wrong in the world, he thinks. His friends are hungry. Allura’s being forced into marriage. His hand is gone, defining what people see in him and denying him a future.

What three wishes could solve all that? He could change the law with a wish so Allura wouldn’t have to wed, but he’d still never see her again. He could wish for enough money to care for his friends, but Matt would still be trapped as a talking rug. He could wish for his hand back, but that wouldn’t guarantee a future off the streets.

He looks up at Hunk. “What would you wish for?” he asks.

Hunk opens his mouth, then hesitates. “You really wanna know?”

“Yeah,” says Shiro. “You’ve granted a lot of wishes. What’s most important?”

Hunk chews on his lip. “Well, to me? Freedom.”

Shiro swallows. “You’re—a prisoner?”

Hunk looks away. “Yeah, you know, that genie life. Phenomenal cosmic power, itty-bitty living space. If you were stuck in a lamp for a couple millennia, you’d probably wish for freedom too.”

“But,” says Shiro, “phenomenal cosmic power, right? Why don’t you just leave the lamp on your own?”

“Genie life,” Hunk repeats. “Can’t use the power for myself—like I literally can’t, it doesn’t do a thing. Only way to get free is if somebody wishes it for me.”

He looks down at the ground, shoulders pulling in on themselves like he’s trying to hide the fact that he’s about to cry. And Shiro’s seen that look before—on Pidge, on Keith, on Lance. He’s seen it over and over, that hopelessness covered over with stubborn independence, and he’s never let it stand if he could help it.

“I’ll wish you free,” he says. “Hunk, I swear it. I’ll use my last wish to free you.”

“Uh, no offense,” says Hunk, “but I’ve heard that before. Nobody gives up a wish.”

“Using it to help you isn’t giving it up,” Shiro says.

Hunk shrugs. “Hey,” he says, a false brightness seeping back into his voice. “You got two wishes till you have to decide on that, anyway. What are they gonna be?”

And suddenly, without a hint of misgiving, Shiro knows.

“Hunk,” he says, “I wish for you to make me a prince.”


	3. let your heart decide

In the castle courtyard, Allura leans against the stone walls that surround the gushing fountain and sighs. She hates fighting with Coran, but she’s going to have to. Zarkon’s really crossed a line this time.

Allura takes a deep breath, squeezing back the tears that threaten to come. There’s nothing she can do now for the boy from the marketplace, she tells herself; there’s no way she can reverse his execution. But what she can do is make sure that it never-fucking-ever happens again.

Anger surges up along with the grief. He was such a good person! A thief, yes, sure, but he cared about her. He took care of those kids and he didn't want to see anyone hurt, and that's more than Allura can say for most of the nobles who attend the castle or the princes who’ve come to court her. There’s something to be said, she thinks, for prioritizing people over rules and decorum. Even over laws.

“Princess?” The call comes from the entry to the courtyard, and Allura turns to look.

“Coran!” She rises, straightening her skirts and schooling her expression into ferocity.

“Yes, princess,” says Coran. He beams at her. “You called?”

“Yes,” says Allura. “Coran, there has been a grave injustice.”

“Injustice!” Coran's eyebrows fly up. “Why, what has happened?”

“Zarkon has happened,” Allura accuses. “He has executed a boy without trial, and on false accusations, against my own testimony.”

Coran stares at her, dumbfounded. “I cannot believe,” he starts, and Allura interrupts.

“You also would question my word?” she demands.

“No,” says Coran, reconsidering. “But Zarkon! King Alfor, may he sleep in peace, trusted Zarkon with his life!”

"Well," says Allura, "I do not. Coran, I want to see him removed as chief advisor. Immediately."

“Your majesty,” comes another voice, and Allura wheels around again. Zarkon, his dark cape swirling behind him, is entering the courtyard as well. “Your majesty, the boy was a criminal. I know you felt for him, but to kidnap Altean royalty is a deed that would call for the death penalty even for a prince!”

“You call my testimony a lie?” Allura flares, her fists clenching. “Coran, Lord Zarkon is as disrespectful as he is unjust and cruel.”

“King Alfor,” Coran repeats, “as his last decree, stated that Zarkon was to be kept as chief advisor until you came of age to rule. Your majesty, I cannot defy the king's wishes!”

“And you cannot defy ancient tradition, either?” Allura says. “You will insist that I choose a husband by tomorrow, though all who have come to court me have been quiznaking fools?”

“Princess,” Coran pleads, “be reasonable. The royal line must continue!”

“The royal line can wait!” Allura crosses her arms. “Coran, I have many years ahead of me. I can focus on providing a successor after I have established my reign.”

"But the ancient tradition," Coran begins, and Allura swallows back a volley of curses.

“The ancient tradition,” she says, “is wrong. These are new times, Coran, and the implication that I cannot rule without a husband is disgusting. I will not abide—”

And then there's a commotion, a noise of horns and cheering and drums, and Allura frowns. The only ones who come to the castle this way are suitors.

“I will be in my chambers,” she says, before any can insist that she meet with this new quiznaking fool who desires the Altean throne, and turns on her heel.

From the balcony of her rooms, she can see the parade that accompanies the suitor; it's a majestic sight, certainly, but she grimaces. What a show-off, what a flaunter of riches, what an insensitive brute this prince is sure to be. Nothing like the boy in the marketplace, whose callused hand was so gentle around her own. Who shared his blanket without demanding a single touch in return, who made do on stolen scraps of food and took the smallest portions for himself.

Allura sighs. She could have loved him, she thinks, in another life. But in this, she does not even know his name to remember him by, and his body is probably already thrown in some rough grave.

The horns play a triumphant march as, riding on a splendid horse, the prince approaches the castle gates. He’s followed by cheering crowds, and Allura wonders why. Few of those who have come to call before were dignified with such excitement from the citizens of Altea. Maybe, she thinks, she should go down to spy as this new prince is greeted by Zarkon and Coran.

Slipping from her balcony, she creeps down the stairs to her preferred lurking spot: the bathroom behind the throne room, from which she can easily hear everything that's going on. The music still sounds like it’s outside, but Zarkon and Coran are speaking together.

“Her majesty must learn," says Zarkon, "that her wishes come after the good of the kingdom. If it is not too bold to say, of course, Lord Regent.”

“She is young,” says Coran. Allura bristles privately, glaring at her reflection in the mirror as Coran goes on. “She deserves to have some joy in life! As regent, I cannot change such an old law, but I wish I could. Allura will rival her father for wise leadership, but if she weds a fool...Lord Zarkon, I wish for her to be happy as a frolicking zemal!”

“But Lord Regent, marriage is what you make of it,” Zarkon says. “And Princess Allura will hardly be the first ruler who has had to marry for the sake of alliance.”

“All our allies are content.” Coran hesitates. “Lord Zarkon, what shall I do if the princess does not choose a suitor by her birthday? I cannot force her to choose. Her will is as strong as that of an untamed rescabar.”

“The law says that if no suitable candidate is chosen,” Zarkon answers, “the current ruler may choose from the council of royal advisers.”

Allura's eyes widen in shock. The law says no such thing, and she knows—she has memorized its every clause for her own protection.

“The law says no such thing,” Coran begins.

“The law says,” Zarkon repeats, “that you must choose from the panel of royal advisers.”

“The law says,” Coran echoes back weakly, “to choose from the panel of royal advisers.”

Allura stands frozen. Has Zarkon made some threat that she could not see? Does he have some kind of magic persuasion, that he could make Coran—Coran, who loves her and wishes her happiness—agree to such a thing? Everyone on the council of advisers is as old as her father at least, and most of them are wed!

All of them are wed, she realizes, except Zarkon himself.

Allura paces desperately, unsure of what to do. But then the music outside fanfares and quiets, and she hears the throne room doors cast open.

“His royal highness,” announces a voice, a voice that seems vaguely familiar, “Prince Takashi!”

The horns blast out a final fanfare and go silent.

“Prince Takashi!” cries Coran. “A pleasure, an absolute delight. You have come, I presume, to seek the hand of the princess Allura?”

“I have,” says the prince, and he sounds more familiar than the first voice. Allura's brow creases. She has to look for herself.

“I have traveled far,” the prince continues, “having heard much of the courage and wisdom of your princess. I beg you, Lord Regent, to grant me an audience with Her Majesty.”

As she sneaks towards the doorway of the throne room, Allura's heart begins to swell. It cannot be, of course, but the voice sounds like the boy she met in the marketplace. The boy Zarkon told her was dead, executed without trial.

She pulls out a small mirror and uses it to reflect around the corner of the throne room's side entrance. There’s Coran, beaming; next to him, Zarkon frowns. And there's the back of the prince's head...

He turns. Allura gasps.

There is no way he could be the boy from the market, she thinks. But there is also no way he is not: his black hair is cut the same, and his soft but commanding gaze flickers across the room.

“Absolutely delighted,” Coran is saying again, when Allura finally pulls herself back to listening. “I will send for her immediately!”

“One moment, please, Lord Regent,” interrupts Zarkon. “Prince Takashi...where did you say you came from?”

In the mirror, Allura sees the prince lift his eyebrows. “Further than you've traveled, I’m sure,” he says, and the sternness in his voice is deadly. Allura tilts the mirror again, gasps again.

Prince Takashi is missing his right hand.

“You must be a survivor of many battles,” Zarkon says, in that way of his that flatters and yet doubts. He looks, with eyebrows raised, at the stump of right arm which protrudes a little beyond Takashi's fine silk sleeve. “You will certainly have many tales of courage to tell the princess as you seek to win her hand.”

“Yes,” says Takashi. His voice is still cold. “Many tales.”

Allura finally finds her voice. “How dare you,” she calls, swinging out into the throne room with her skirts billowing. “Standing around without me, discussing my future as though I can bring nothing to the table? I am not some prize to be won!”

Zarkon stares at her blankly; the prince Takashi does too.

“Princess,” stutters Coran, “please, this is Prince Takashi—”

But Allura doesn't want to speak with Takashi in front of Zarkon, or even Coran. She spins on her heel, bustling back up to the throne room. How is it that the kind, gentle young man she met in the market, the one who looked at her like she was a real person, who listened—how could he be so spineless as to listen to Zarkon describe her that way and say nothing!

A suspicion begins to form in her mind. Perhaps, instead of a commoner becoming a prince, the prince had become a commoner. Perhaps it was the life in the attic that was the lie; perhaps he truly did lose his hand in battle and was only masquerading as a thief. It seems...implausible at best, but the pomp of his arrival disgusts her as much as his simple honesty had delighted her in the marketplace. If he wants to speak with her, it will be without all that. He will be honest, or he will be rejected.

Allura storms back to her room, locks the door behind her, and curls up with her tiger Raja to ponder this mystery.

When she wakes, it's dark. She doesn’t remember falling asleep, but the moon is rising outside her window. Everything is silent except for the swish of wind outside.

“Princess Allura?”

She startles, stands. “Who’s there?” she calls, fumbling for a candle. But then she sights it, a silhouette sitting on her windowsill.

Allura lights the candle with fingers that she orders not to shake. Holding it high, she steps towards the window.

“Princess,” says the silhouette, “It's me. Prince Takashi.”

Allura’s heart leaps, but she approaches carefully. “Prince Takashi,” she says. “I didn’t expect—”

“Neither did I,” he says.

“What?” says Allura.

“I didn’t expect to be the prize for you to win.” Takashi gazes at her earnestly, his smile gleaming softly in the light of her candle. “But here I am, princess, my heart already conquered.”

Allura steps closer, peering at his face. “Do I know you?” she asks. “Do you—know me?”

“I know you only through tales,” Takashi says.

“And what do the tales say?” Allura asks. She means there to be fire in her tone, but there is none.

 “They say you are wise beyond your years,” Takashi says, “educated in all arts and sciences, courageous and gentle in diplomacy. They say you are…beautiful.”

He reaches for her hand, and Allura knows the feel of those fingers—the calluses firm but smooth, the grip tender.

“And do you find the tales true?” she murmurs.

“No,” he says. “I find their praises inadequate.”

She twines his fingers in hers. “You should not be here. You could be arrested for coming to my chambers.”

“You’re right,” he says. “I’m sorry. I’ll—go.”

Pulling his hand away, he stands up on the sill, steps over.

“No!” Allura cries, and then his head rises back up over the edge.

“What?” he asks, and he’s grinning like she’s never seen before—a bright, laughing smile.

“How are you doing that,” she demands, rushing to look. He floats upwards.

“It’s a magic carpet,” he says.

“Could I,” Allura breathes, “could I come with you?”

His grin fades back to that soft smile, almost sad. “If you trust me,” he says, and without a word Allura steps onto the windowsill, takes his hand, and settles on the carpet behind him.

They circle around a turret, swirl into the sky. Night unfolds around them, splendid stars arranging themselves into constellations. The carpet whirls them through wisps of cloud.

“Where are we going?” Allura asks, laughing as the wind takes her breath away.

Prince Takashi laughs, too. “Wherever your heart decides, princess. There’s no one to tell us no.”

Below, the city sprawls sleepy and shining. Allura’s heart feels too big for her chest, full as it is with wonder. She leans her chin on Takashi’s shoulder and wraps an arm around his waist. His arm comes around her shoulders in turn, pulling her level with him on the carpet.

It's like magic, Allura thinks again, even aside from the flying—being out, being free, being unguarded. Prince Takashi is warm and solid next to her, and the wind sings around them.

“How did you find a magic carpet?” she asks, as they swoop downwards to the streets. The carpet turns corners deftly, beautifully, and Allura drinks in the sights.

Takashi reaches towards a garden they're passing, plucks her a flower. “In a magic cave,” he says, and she's not sure if he's teasing or not. “He talks, too.”

“The carpet?” Allura tucks the flower into her hair.

“Yeah,” he says. “Say hi, Matt.”

“Hiiiiiii,” singsongs a voice, quite clearly from the carpet. Allura nearly falls off in surprise.

“Uh, hello,” she responds.

The carpet twitches its tassels at her. “You can ride me anytime, princess.”

“Uh,” Allura says again. “Thanks?”

Takashi blushes. “So this is the temple,” he interrupts, “over here, and that's the Juniberry Way marketplace, and...”

“I thought you came from a land far away.” Allura quirks an eyebrow at him, even as she squeezes her arm tighter around his waist. “How do you know the streets of Altea?”

Takashi's blush deepens. “Uh,” he says, and Allura's heart leaps.

“You _are_ the boy I met in the market!” she cries. “I knew it!”

“No,” he fumbles. “No, I—”

“Why did you lie to me,” she demands. “Did you think I was stupid, that I wouldn't figure it out?”

“No!” he cries. “No, I just—I hoped—”

“Hoped what?” Allura pulls her arm away, wraps herself in a hug. She doesn't know what to feel; anger and confusion and joy and love are all blending inside her, fighting for control of her face and mind and body. “That I’d think you were just some new quiznaking peacock come to court me? Tell me the truth, Prince Takashi. Who are you?”

He's staring down at his hand, looking sad and small. Allura's stomach flips with the desire to kiss him happy, but she bites her lip and doesn't move towards him.

“I—I sometimes dress as a commoner,” he says, slowly. “The first time, I just wanted to travel without so much fuss, you know? But then I met those kids and I had to come back. I had to help them. And my father would never have let me bring them back to the palace. So all I could do was visit and help out.”

The carpet settles on a rooftop overlooking the palace—the same rooftop they sat on when they first met, when Allura told him how she was being forced into marriage.

“Why didn't you just tell me,” Allura says. His sadness is leaking into her. “I want to trust you, Takashi. But I can't do that when you lie.”

“I know,” he says. “Princess...I’m sorry. I didn't know what else to do. Before I knew who you were, well, I thought I would sound like a madman with a story like this. And after, I was afraid.”

“Don't be afraid,” she tells him, reaching for his hand again. And then, somehow, their lips brush.

“Remember when you said you didn’t belong anywhere,” he whispers against the side of her mouth. “I felt that way too. But now...Allura, now...”

Allura presses up against him. Somehow, somehow, she belongs here too: on this rooftop, in this new world, in the magic and wonder of his kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been feeling really discouraged abt this fic lately, but I'm hoping to pick up on it again! Sorry for the long delay :/


End file.
